


The Wrath of God

by AllegoriesInMediasRes



Series: Mary I of England: Truth, the daughter of time [15]
Category: 16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Historical Accuracy, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 06:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10938558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/pseuds/AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: Christmas 1535. Storms are brewing in England, ones that her subjects cannot escape, not even on the happiest day of the year.





	The Wrath of God

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of my Mary I series, but can also stand on its own.

**24 December 1535**

Many people would have counted being left behind at Hatfield during Christmastide while the rest of the court celebrated at Whitehall as an insult, but for Lady Anne Shelton, it was a godsend. With most of the household, including Princess Elizabeth, away at court for the holidays, she could share a rare meal with her husband, John, blissfully free of any concerns. Their duties as Governor and Governess of the Princess of England’s household kept them dreadfully busy most days of the year, and she was most pleased to spend a long stretch of uninterrupted time with him, even if it meant not being at court.

In any case, court was not a particularly wonderful place to be. While Nan would have loved the chance to see her children, who resided at court as part of the royal retinues, she was glad to stay away from her brother and her niece. Indebted as she was to the Earl of Wiltshire and the Queen for raising her family so high, they were sure to be insufferable, what with the Queen carrying the King’s child and the Boleyn faction glorying in their triumph. Nan had no wish to spend Christmas in such unbearable surroundings and was content to spend a quiet holiday with her husband in the relative peace of Hatfield.

The parlor was wonderfully cozy, with a fire blazing in the grate and the two of them swathed in furs with a steaming meal before them. Outside the wind was sighing and light snow was falling, but inside there was only the sound of the crackling fire and light chatter and her husband’s occasional booming laughter. Oh, yes, this was much better than any holiday at court.

John had just finished off a particularly amusing anecdote that had them both chortling heartily when Nan suddenly became aware of a figure standing in the doorway. The governess shrieked and jumped, sending the glass in her hand flying and the wine splattering. “Good heavens!”

Nan had not even noticed the Lady Mary entering like a silent wraith, admitting herself instead of waiting to be announced, unusually for her. Despite the festive season, she looked deathly pale, dressed in a tattered black gown. She stood unmoving in the doorway as servants scrambled to clean up the mess. Nobody bowed to her or even spared her a second glance-- not that _that_ was surprising. What _was_ surprising was that Mary did not raise so much as a murmur of protest at the lack of acknowledgement. An odd attitude for her.

The servants had tidied up the mess as best they could, leaving their betters to dwell in uncomfortable silence. Mary slowly shuffled forward into the room, not making eye contact with anyone. John and Nan watched her warily as she strode over to one of the narrow windows, gazing out at the swirling snow outside. It was most unusual of the Lady to be so quiet and so… withdrawn; normally, she would have been here to make some outrageous demand on account of her pretended status as Princess of Wales, and by now they would have been engaged in a furious battle of words. This timid, silent creature was almost more frightening than the usual hellion they had to deal with.

At last, she spoke. “I trust you are having a good Christmas?”

Nan and John exchanged a glance. Was the Lady Mary actually here on a social call? How strange. “Yes, my lady. I trust you are having a good one, as well?”

The words were laden with sarcasm, but Mary nodded absently. She skirted the outer length of the chamber, all traces of her usual haughtiness and poise gone. Finally, she spoke. “I have heard word that my mother is ill.”

“Your mother is often ill,” said John bluntly. “So often it is a wonder God has not called her back to Him by now. If only I had a shilling for every time I had heard about the pitifully poor health of the Princess Dowager.”

Mary did not even react to hearing her mother denied the title of Queen, or the rebuke in his words. Rather than gladden Nan, it perturbed her. What was _wrong_ with the Lady Mary?

The younger girl finally abandoned her post at the window and turned to face them fully, her hands twisting and untwisting. “This time, they say that she is really quite ill. Dangerously ill.”

Her breath hitched, and Mary swallowed hard, but she soldiered on. “May I please not see her? I am sure the King would--”

Nan felt a wave of irritation rise up in her. So the girl had come here to bleat as usual after all. John clearly shared her feelings, and he did not even look up from his meal as he cut her off. “Out of the question, my lady. The King has been perfectly clear on that point.”

Mary did not take the hint. “But my lord, this is not one of her usual illnesses. They say she is mortally ill. That she will not live to see the new year. Surely-- surely the King would make an exception, in that case?”

Despite herself, Nan felt something clench inside of her. Illness was often used for political purposes, and God knew Mary had feigned illness on more than one occasion to escape her duties as a servant, but if the rumors were true, that the Princess Dowager’s days were numbered…

Mary saw the hesitation on her governess’s face and she pounced upon it, as a tiger leaps upon a wriggling mouse. “We would meet supervised, of course, with witnesses to ensure that we spoke no treason. They would be picked at the King’s pleasure, and at-- at your _niece’s_ pleasure, and we would speak only in English. Just one last meeting, so that I might receive her final blessing. Surely the King will allow us that much.”

Nan bit her lip as she considered the girl’s proposal. The Lady Mary had been a most undutiful daughter in the past few years, committing acts of treason that any other subject would have faced the executioner’s axe for, but to deny her a deathbed visit with the mother from whom she’d been separated for years…

“Perhaps the King might allow it,” Nan said hesitantly, after a long silence. “We could frame it as a concession to the Emperor. A peace offering, a gesture of diplomacy to offset a war.”

Mary broke into a smile, and it struck Nan that she had never seen the girl smile before. It made her look youthful, like the bright young maiden she was supposed to be instead of the world-weary nun she usually gave the impression of being. But then, when in the past two years had the girl had occasion to smile? Or, the crueler part of Nan whispered, when in the past two years had the girl given herself occasion to smile? But she pushed the thought away. Surely this girl, who was a King’s daughter and the cousin of an Emperor, deserved to say goodbye to her mother.

The wind had died down, and the sun actually peeked out from behind the clouds for the first time all day. Weak, wintry light filtered through the windows and cast the entire room in a pale golden light. Nan squinted, the sudden brightness blinding after days of overcast skies.

The sudden break in the weather did not move John. “Even if the King were to agree, the roads are in no condition for travel at this time of year. You would catch your own death of cold before--”

“I don't care!” The Lady Mary shrieked suddenly, turning from them and pacing about the room, tearing her hair and looking quite demented. “My mother may be dying, and you prattle on about the _weather_!”

Some of the younger servants snickered at the Lady Mary’s outburst, one wondering aloud in an ill-concealed undertone that if the Lady Mary took after her aunt who had gone mad. The girl did not seem to hear; indeed, she was so distressed that Nan could have broken into a galliard on the spot and Mary would not have noticed.

Sir John cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of authority, though it fell quite flat. “My lady, the King sent orders specifically for this occasion. You may see each other… when you have both taken the Oath.”

The words seemed to petrify Mary, leaving her frozen and stock-still like an alabaster sculpture. Her eyes were luminous and she bit her lip, hard, until Nan could see a drop of blood welling up. Mary seemed to be wavering, her resolve alternately hardening and faltering. Was the girl actually going to give way--

A window suddenly rattled in its frame, the rusty shutter giving way and blowing open, sending a flurry of snow into the room and the ladies-in-waiting shrieking. Nan barked orders for someone, _anyone_ , to get the window shut. Finally they managed to bolt the rickety panels closed again, although a good deal of the room’s furniture and occupants was now soaked.

Nan shifted in her seat, wincing at the sensation of icy sodden velvet clinging to her skin. So much for a peaceful holiday away from court, she thought sourly. As her servants hurried forward to help her slip out of her outer gown and place it by the fire to dry, they could hear the winds picking up pace outside again. The clouds had blotted out the sun once more, and the earlier radiance had been swallowed up by the encroaching storm.

Finally Nan and John, with the help of their servants, had dried their clothes somewhat and settled back down into their armchairs. Just as Nan was getting comfortable, however, a sudden thought struck her. “Where did the Lady Mary go?” she asked her husband urgently.

John turned with a start towards the doorway, which was now empty. The Lady Mary had evidently taken her leave of them as they were attempting to close the window, escaping them without a word. Husband and wife looked at each other with the same wild thought mirrored in each others’ faces: had the girl taken matters into her own hands and actually braved the storm outside?

A sudden drumroll of footsteps far above their head, followed by a door slamming and then, more faintly, sobs, answered their question. Their doubts assuaged, John and Nan returned to their much-neglected meal. Nan found, however, that the victuals, which had been so succulent only minutes before, were now as brittle as sawdust on her tongue. John seemed to feel much the same and dropped his fork after a few mouthfuls. Neither one spoke, stiff tension in place of where good cheer had been earlier. Outside, a deep, guttural moan echoed across the landscape as sleet spiraled and gyred, the storm now raging violently with a fury akin to the wrath of God.

**Author's Note:**

> Katherine of Aragon fell mortally ill in late December 1535, around Christmas; a few weeks later, she died on January 7. True to his word, Henry VIII refused his daughter Mary to visit her before she died, so long as they clung to their old titles.
> 
> Lady Anne Shelton and Sir John Shelton were Anne Boleyn’s aunt and uncle in real life, who were responsible for helping run Elizabeth’s household. Lady Shelton in particular was charged with supervising Mary and breaking her defiance. Despite her kinship to Anne and her position of favor, Lady Shelton seems to have had a difficult relationship with her niece, who later claimed that she “never loved” her aunt. 
> 
> If anyone has any ideas or requests for any moments from Mary's life, seeing her interact with other Tudor figures, AU Mary-centric ideas, or even an entirely Mary-unrelated idea, leave me a comment!


End file.
